


Angel Trumpet Flowers

by Tea_and_Nightmarescapes (Anxious_Trickster)



Series: Gardens and Graves [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Child Abuse, Derealization, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Let Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) Say Fuck, Luther friendly, Mental Health Issues, Mindfuck, Non-Linear Narrative, Nonbinary Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Number Five | The Boy has OCD, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, internalized ableism, no beta we die like men, no cutting though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:16:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anxious_Trickster/pseuds/Tea_and_Nightmarescapes
Summary: In the Hargreeves mansion, you learn how to walk to tightrope between swallowing down the pain and destroying yourself completely. The war over control is broken down into a thousand pieces, and each of those fragments no matter how small they seem, count. So, in turn, that means that any disruption in the balance can be devastating.And Five does not merely lose his balance, he gets shoved, and plummets to the unnetted floor swiftly.Five is not without his weaknesses, he knows this; but life at the Academy gets so much harder when one day, he cannot flip the light switch. Or rather, he cannot flip the light switch without doing it eleven more times.ORFive has OCD





	1. Brugmansia

**Author's Note:**

> The author is basing this on their own experiences, but it does not reflect the experiences of everyone that is nonbinary or has OCD. 
> 
> I would like to issue a special tw:  
In depth discussion of OCD rituals that may be triggering to others with OCD, hypochondria, gender dysphoria, child abuse, violence, death, suicidal thoughts, disassociation, and strange thoughts. Be cautious. 
> 
> If any more tws pop up, I'll add them to the chapter notes.
> 
> Enjoy.

It isn't clear when it starts, but he imagines that these sorts of things never are. How does one measure the root of an idea, of a pattern, of a way of thinking, until it has completely taken hold? 

It turns out to be a great pain in Five’s ass, that part is undeniable. It’s just a great pain in his ass that reveals itself in increments; until it’s warped face is too visible not to be dangerous, and too visible not to be seen.

You see, the talents of The Umbrella Academy do not lie in superpowers or combat training. The thing every number is best at, is the ability to adapt and the ability to survive (even if adapting means dying slowly, even if it ends up killing you eventually). 

Being a child soldier in Reginald’s authoritarian superhero regimen is like playing a high stakes game of battleship. That is, if in battleship you lost almost every round because your opponent was cheating, and each time the consequence for losing was that you had one of your fingers bent backward until it was broken. 

Each member learns the best ways to survive Reginald, a painful process of trial and error, but it’s something that needs to be done.

You learn how to walk to tightrope between swallowing down the pain and destroying yourself completely. In the Hargreeves mansion, the war over control is broken down into a thousand pieces, and each of those fragments no matter how small they seem, count. So, in turn, that means that any disruption in the balance can be devastating.

And Five does not merely lose his balance, he gets shoved, and plummets to the unnetted floor swiftly. 

Five is not without his weaknesses, he knows this; but life at the Academy gets so much harder when one day, he cannot flip the light switch. Or rather, he cannot flip the light switch without doing it eleven more times.

* * *

One of Five’s least favorite kinds of sparring in the Academy is the bo staff training. The harsh wooden sticks usually leave them with bruises, and on occasion, broken bones. But to Five, the greatest slight is its apparent uselessness. Reginald rationalized implementing it by saying something or another about harnessing maximum agility and dexterity. Well, Five would rather be harnessing _ his _ maximum agility and dexterity without the bullshit. Thank you.

This time is notable however, because when Pogo passes around the staffs, Five is filled with a strange dread. The particular staff he was handed feels _ wrong, _ like he shouldn’t touch it. All of them are identical in every way, he knows this intellectually; but each feels almost like it has an aura, even though Five doesn’t believe in that new age malarkey. Something about his staff’s aura is _ bad _ , while something about the other’s staffs seem _ correct _. If only he could just get a different one. He knows his wishes to switch would not be indulged if he voiced them, so he shifts the sleeves of his blazer to cover his hands. Anything is preferable than touching his bo staff. All this over fucking sticks, he swears. Maybe Five can intimidate Klaus into giving him his later.

It is just his luck that he is paired with Luther of all people.

“Daaaad, Five’s holding the bo staff wrong.” Luther points out immediately, the little snitch.

Everyone turns to look.

“Number Five! What is the meaning of this?!” 

Unable to explain his reasoning, Five vaguely opens and closes his mouth a few times.

“This behavior is unacceptable!” Reginald shouts, slamming his cane forcefully to the ground. Five fails not to flinch, because when Reginald shouts, it is not merely the expression of unkind words but the promise of later pain. 

“You will fix your grip at once, you stupid boy! After training, we will be having a discussion in my office! Do I make myself clear!”

“Yes sir.” Five stares at the floor. 

Reginald claps his hands, signaling for the training to continue.

Five shoots a venomous glare Luther, he looks away guiltily. Good.

Five shifts his sleeves so he’s holding the bo staff with his bare hands, but is unable to suppress his shaking for the rest of the training. Afterward, he taps his fingers on his cheeks ten times to relieve the feelings of guilt and fear he got from breaking the rules his brain decided to invent.

His siblings look on in amused confusion, not sure what he’s playing at but deciding it’s funny nonetheless. 

* * *

He turns to Delores, sloshing his vodka. “Do we order our perceptions of the world based on our language, or do we order our language in accordance to our perceptions of the world? Do people that speak languages with different grammatical structures understand the layers of reality in completely different ways?” 

Delores looks on with dead plastic eyes.

Delores gives him a wink and a cheeky smile.

“Chicken or egg darling, there’s no way to tell.”

* * *

Five’s symptoms are a mystery until they aren’t, because he hates not knowing, he hates that shit.

He searches out the relevant information, hammers out the solutions, because that’s just what Five does. In his studies he learns that he has obsessive compulsive disorder, and suddenly it all becomes a little less insurmountable. With the name of his condition, he now has a starting point so he can figure out how to fix himself.

He is a hostage in a house with no patience for any deviance from the normal in their uniquely abnormal lives, and a hostage to a mind without a care for his or anyone else's idea for how it should function. But Five’s going to win against it all, because he hates that shit. 

* * *

“It’s so hard,” Luther says one night, perched on the windowsill, “I can never seem to escape my mind,” he looks up at the night to the moon, “I wish I was here, I thought I had left that place.”

Luther shakes his head. “I guess I’m not making much sense.”

“No,” Five follows his line of sight to the sky, “I know what you mean.”

* * *

You hold your breath in the Handler’s office as long as you can without it becoming noticeable. The Handler is toxic, so her room must be as well, says some irrational part of your mind. 

You looked into her eyes for too long this time around, so when you’re properly out of sight, you pull out Vanya’s autobiography and stare at an even paged number until you feel better. 

The Commission is not built for comfort, so this is what you do: 

You write in seven word sentences in every memo you send over. 

You stomp each foot two times before taking a long distance shot with your sniper rifle.

You run your finger over the safety of your gun twelve times, because you know it’s on but you have to check if it’s on. Twelve times because fuck life.


	2. Tropane Alkaloid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burials and Concerts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the shortest chapter there is going to be, I hope y'all like it anyways.

The greatest sin of it all, is how it slows him down. Five, for all his quick calculations and rapid teleportation cannot keep up with the constant tripwire of rituals. Frankly, it’s humiliating. He’s better than that. He’s the smartest one, he isn’t supposed to be the slowest one out of the room. He’s sharp, he’s frightening, but he’s wracked with constant worry. Five joins the ranks with Klaus in being the one that is always a little distracted, always doing odd things that make no sense.

The others find it entertaining, at first. That is, until it doesn’t stop. Once they determine that Five does what he does, not as some bizarre act of rebellion, but as a bid for attention, their lighthearted interest bleeds into a dark resentment. The Umbrella Academy is not famous for its patience after all.

“Why can’t you just stop?” asks Ben one day. The statement does not carry the flippancy that it would normally, if it came from anyone else. Any malice, purposeful or otherwise, is cut by Ben’s earnest nature. Maybe, that’s because Ben, out of everyone, comes the closest to understanding. Ben sees Five return from personal training with split lips and skin colored black and blue, and knows it’s because he did something strange that day. 

Ben’s own personal training is not something to be envied. Five himself, has never quite known the right thing to say when Ben goes quiet, refusing to move, even if only to wipe off the blood, or change out of his soaked clothes. So, Five does not hold it against Ben for his fumble, and sees the gesture for what it really is.

But how can Five explain that while his compulsions are by no means involuntary and while he can_ technically _ stop anytime he likes, he also under no circumstances can ever _ ever _ stop? 

So instead of saying anything at all, he punches Ben in the stomach and jumps away.

* * *

Without the aid of a shovel, Five is left with no choice but to stack rubble on top of the corpses of his family.

Even in his shock and grief and despair and a thousand unknown emotions all rolled up in something big and terrible that make his bones crack, he only chooses the rocks that _feel right. _And after he has chosen the right piece of debris for his siblings’ graves, he goes on setting it down and picking it back up again (an even number of times, it’s always an even number of times) until his brain stops screaming at him.

Ash coats the inside of his mouth and combines with his saliva to form a paste. It’s so dry, his kingdom for a glass of water.

He touches Diego’s cheek, and finds himself disturbed by how loose the skin feels.

* * *

It’s funny, for all his anxieties about losing his mind when he was younger, it turns out he was bound to lose it anyways in the unbearable emptiness of everything. Five laughs, a bitter thing, and lets himself drift off on the current of surreal thoughts in this dead world.

* * *

He notices a small thin cut on his index finger. He had noticed a similar on injury on one of his toes earlier, and had thought nothing of it. Why had he found two similar cuts on himself in the span of 24 hours? Why were they so thin and small? Why under the nail? What does this mean? What does this mean?

His skin must be unraveling, perhaps from a bacterium that has gone too far in his system not to be anything but fatal. Not that a doctor would be able to help him anyway, no one ever helps, no one ever helps, no one ever helps-

Something must show itself on his face, because Klaus leans in and asks a bit too loudly, “You okay there, little bro?”

Allison shushes Klaus, swatting him with her program, but she eyes Five in concern as well.

“It’s okay to need a break, Five.” She whispers at an appropriate volume.

He waves her off. It’s Vanya’s concert, he wouldn’t want to miss this. It will only be one more hour that Five is left alone with his thoughts. One hour is ten minutes six times over, and that’s not too long.

* * *

“What is time?” asks no one.

“Well, that’s complicated. Duration represents the subjective personal experience of changing relations among planets - yes, that includes the earth - and changing relations among those in one’s immediate surroundings. In other words, time is not a thing, or a substance, or a material. Spaces aren’t really things either, even if we can experience them as they have been realized in places. But I digress.” He lectures to Delores, waving his piece of chalk around, like how he always imagined college professors to do.

She answers him with an empty glass stare.

Five chuckles, she always knows the right thing to say.

* * *

Five checks the equations one last time.

He tugs at the folds of reality. He holds tight, letting it bunch up between his greedy fingers, and _ pulls _. Space is not cold or warm, wet or dry, soft or coarse, it just is. A sensory uncanny valley only Five is entitled to. He grabs space itself and yanks the fabric of the universe. In a flash of brilliant electric blue, he feels the whole world twist. And with no sound at all, he disappears, only leaving behind the faint smell of candy and ozone.

He is going to see his family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmm, here it is, the infamous "dead family scene." There WILL be fluff, at least I think so.
> 
> The feedback has been lovely so far. Thank you all so much.


	3. Datureae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rumor. A win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by Princex_N's lovely fic, _learn to live with it_.
> 
> Additional tws: Suffocation, intrusive thoughts, and mind control.
> 
> From those two alone, y'all might be able to guess what's going to happen.

Despite himself, Five’s shoulders hunch with every impatient foot tap and judgmental glance he gets from holding up the line for the bathroom. 

The fact that in a mansion filled with nineteen bathrooms, only one is designated for them, probably says a lot. However, the situation is officially out of their control, and thus the bathroom wait is a torturous early morning routine that every Hargreeves must go through. That is, besides Vanya of course.

But despite everyone's’ dickish behavior, Five continues to open the cabinet drawer over and over again. He regrets opening the door, because now his siblings get to see him and make fun of him. In his defense he thought he was going to leave, instead of having to do _ this _bullshit. 

“Hey look, Five’s finally lost his marbles.” Klaus yells from the back, promoting a soft murmur of laughter from the others.

“God!” Allison throws up her hands in exasperation, “I heard a rumor that you stopped doing your weird pattern thing.”

And he does.

“Thank Christ, now I can take a piss,” groans Klaus.

“Y-you should’ve done that sooner,” says Diego.

“Now, we might be able to make it down to breakfast in time,” responds Luther.

Five slowly withdraws his hand, the feeling remains, but there is nothing he can do about it. He walks gingerly out of the bathroom, almost like he’s trying not to trigger a landmine. And maybe in a sense he is. There is a stiff and still panic in his chest, a silence in the face of the tsunami preparing to crash down.

He doesn’t bother to try and communicate, too afraid to open his mouth. For each step, he starts paying more and more attention to the frequency of his stride. Five’s legs lock into place. He can’t move. He tries to warp away, but then he thinks about feeling of each room and the spot he likes to appear in them. 

Five knows better than to think of his biological processes, but all of a sudden that’s all he can think about. How much air do his lungs take in? And what is the proper pause in between times? His breath lodges in his throat. He can’t breathe. He falls to the floor. He can’t breathe. He would grasp his throat if he could move his hands. _ He can’t breathe. _

“Guys! Guys! There’s something wrong with Five!” He hears someone shout. _He can’t breathe. _

“What’s he doing?”

_ He can’t breathe. _

“His face is going all red!”

_ He can’t breathe. _

“Allison quick, undo it!”

_ He can’t breathe, he- _

“I heard a rumor that you were yourself again.” Allison says in a rush.

Five’s whole body untenses at once. He rolls over, gasping and coughing.

His siblings all stand over him, shifting uncomfortably with worry. 

“Five-”

Five blinks to his room without a word.

He slams his door in anger. He slams it nineteen more times.

He makes it over to his nightstand.

Five bangs his hand against the drawer, sixteen times, twenty-eight times, forty-two times, sixty-four times, one hundred and twenty-seven times, one hundred and sixty-eight times, until his knuckles bleed; but it isn't enough, _ but it isn’t enough. _ He stumbles away and climbs in bed, clapping his hands over and over again to get rid of the prevailing feeling of wrongness. He claps faster, keeping track of the process in even numbers (always in even numbers).

They don’t understand. They will never _ understand _ . Every member of the _ idiot _ brigade he’s forced to live with are lacking in the imagination, education on the matter, and most importantly, _ the desire to learn _. 

Five rubs his eyes, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears. 

He is better than them. He is better than them. _ He is better than them all _. 

* * *

Five has a major breakthrough.

He is doing his math when it happens. 

Five had recently developed a new ritual, in which for every number he puts down, he has to rewrite it one more time. A particularly pesky compulsion, as it affects the pace of work tremendously.

So here Five sits, worksheet in hand, frustrated at his slow progress. Math was a safe place for him, now sullied. The ultimate inconvenience. On top of it all, Reginald is out of the house today, and everyone else has finished their work for the day to go off to do something they _ like _. 

“You can leave when you’re finished, honey!” Chirps Grace.

Five shoots her a glare she will most likely not understand.

He knows he has a decision, either continue at a snail’s pace, or ...not. 

So, Five just. Let’s go.

Nothing happens.

Five completes his work, he walks away, and nothing happens. Maybe it’s cliché, but it feels like a great weight has been lifted; and it’s nice not to be weighed down.

* * *

So, Five closes his eyes.

He remembers that feeling of relief when something deep down realized nothing bad had happened when he broke the rules. He holds that feeling close to his chest.

Five slowly, very slowly, applies that same feeling to every other invasive ritual he has, until they crumble like sand. 

The only person that can help Five is Five himself after all.

* * *

However, it’s not like it goes away with time. He just compartmentalizes; puts all his compulsions into little boxes where no one can notice them. From his waking moment, he organizes his life based on the mysterious magnetism and repulsion of certain actions and objects. 

Despite them all being the same, he always chooses the uniform that exudes an aura of _ correctness _ that day and tries not to linger. He always puts on his uniform in the exact same order each morning. He washes his hands by squeezing the water between them, always starting with the right and ending with the left. He swallows his spit one time before crossing the threshold of his room. He greets his siblings a certain way and refuses to talk until then. And so on, in the smallest of ways. It is fine, he is fine, and after a while it becomes something he barely thinks about.

* * *

In times of stress, his control splinters and they come rushing back in ounces.

It is then, that he is left rattling the door handle in the middle of the night.

Or kicking the dirt in the apocalypse. 

* * *

Stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk make him uncomfortable in a way that he has trouble describing, even to himself.

But he ignores it.

Unwanted images of sexual perversions, violence, and a myriad of slurs pop into his mind at random.

But he ignores it.

Just like how he ignores the feeling of unease that invades his senses whenever his siblings call him “brother”, or the public refers to him as “the boy.”

It will only be much later that he will sit down with his siblings, Ben and Klaus, and have a very difficult and long talk. It will be then, that he’ll learn his feelings on gender are not another inconvenient lie that his brain has decided to fabricate. 

* * *

Every time one of his siblings look on in discomfort or flinch at his actions, he gets the overwhelming desire to run away, to disappear. 

And one day he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmm, that chapter was difficult for me to write. The way that Five was able to somewhat erase his rituals is almost exactly how I did it. Everyone is different though.
> 
> Hope y'all liked it.
> 
> Btw, did anyone else arrive at their gender identity late because they were used to ignoring the crazy shit their brain shouted at them 24/7? Just me?


	4. Solanaceae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramblings and dry toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but y'all get an extra chapter, so yay!

Five is intimately familiar with how the universe is held together. 

Five knows all the theories, the hypotheses, all the dry things said by dry people in the big thick tomes dedicated to science and the such. He learned the rules. He ground it all up into a fine powder chalk dust, and painted it onto reality with his fingers. Formulas are his key to space, and space is a wire-frame mode that he can sink his hands into and bend to his will. 

Maybe he’s been dealing too long in empty expanses and things that barely exist, but Five wonders sometimes: When you look away, does it all stop existing? No darkness or lightness, just nothing; like the dolls that come alive as soon as you leave the room. What if the only thing that ties reality together is a glance? 

If Five isn’t gripping it and turning it blue, how can he know it’s really there?

He knows this is stupid. It doesn’t make sense, it’s selfish, and it may be Narcissistic and that’s bad, right?

Five looks down at his equations, he doesn’t remember writing those. He’s slipping. What Five needs is some fucking sleep.

“You need some fucking sleep, Five,” says Delores. 

Five hoists his drink up and gives her a little cheers. He’ll end up unconscious one way or another.

* * *

Five wasn’t planning on standing in the kitchen of his childhood home at 2:30 AM, running his fingers over all the butter knives, but sometimes there are circumstances and here he is.

Five’s mind swirls around in ash and memories tonight, too panicked to sleep, so instead his overzealous brain demands him do a ritual he’d broken out of long ago.

“Hey,” cuts in Diego's voice from behind.

Five startles, but makes up for it by projecting all his murderous expertise into a glare.

“What’re you doing up?” asks Diego, unaffected.

“I just thought this would be amusing.” Five smiles a tight thin line. “How about you?”

“Oh you know, the usual reasons.” Diego says, gesturing vaguely.

Diego grabs two pieces of bread from the fridge (without washing his hands first, Five will have to remember to grab a piece from the middle of the loaf the next time he wants a slice) and slips them into the toaster. Then he just leans against the counter, not even batting an eye at Five’s cutlery-centric compulsions. 

It’s not that Five wants him to be a dick about it, it’s just that people are _ always _ a dick about it. The deficit in biting comments or embarrassed stares, leaves him in a cotton stuffed state of anticipation. Five doesn’t know what he’s playing at, and Five does not like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The fact he _ isn’t _ doing anything irritating, is irritating Five. 

“Shut_ up, _Diego.” Five slams the drawer shut. This action sets off another chain of rituals, causing Five to open and close it several more times.

“I didn’t say anything, man.”

“Yes, but I can hear you _ thinking _. It’s like the void where your brain is supposed to be is sucking up all the intelligence in the room.”

Diego’s fists instinctively ball up, but they unclench and he forces himself to relax. 

His mouth quirks up into a teasing smile.“So rude, who raised you?”

They both chuckle, and the tension in the room rushes out in one big sweep. Jokes, a little to the left of gallows humor, and perhaps a little to reminiscent of pain to be considered jokes anymore, are the Hargreeves specialty after all. Each party falls into a comfortable silence, individually enjoying their sour amusement

Still, Five chooses to answer earnestly, “I raised myself. I suppose we all did in a way.” And Diego predictably goes stiff, seemingly at a loss of words in the face of Five’s genuine sentimentality.

The toaster gives a merciful _ ding _. Diego shoves a piece of toast in his mouth and slaps down the other one on a plate, and slides it over.

“Uh huh, have this.”

“Dry toast, how appetizing.”

“If you want butter get it yourself, dipshit.”

* * *

Five finds a pile of books in Luther’s room. 

He usually doesn’t make his siblings' personal lives his business, but when Luther starts using words like ‘survivor’ and ‘executive dysfunction’, Five gets curious. He finds volumes pertaining to child abuse, isolation, and PTSD. Five would simply be glad that Luther is trying to understand himself, but he also finds ones on OCD, drug addiction, war, intersectionality, gender theory, and the like. He valiantly tries not to feel touched. 

Diego visits Grace as much as he can, and by extension, Five. Diego takes her out to art museums, and Five tags along, giving them the dirty on all the artists. 

Allison returned to LA to fight for Claire after apocalypse week. It seems like she still has a long way to go, but she managed to get Five a Skype conversation with his Niece. Claire was so happy to meet him, and innocent in her regard in the way that only children manage to be, that Five was overwhelmed by the end of the call.

Five has conversations with Ben through Klaus, even if that means he gets drawn into Klaus’s dance parties once in a while. Klaus has been working on manifesting, so sometimes, when he’s lucky, he’ll get to hold Ben’s hand.

Vanya went back to therapy, and Five hopes he can somehow help her lessen her hate towards the world. He spends afternoons drinking tea at her apartment, and listening to her play _Stravinsky_. 

Everyone is actively trying to do better, _ be _ better, and that’s something. 

Five will admit, it’s nice. It feels like he finally has a sliver of what he’d been fighting for all this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sort of turned out to be filler, but I hope y'all liked it anyway.
> 
> Have a lovely day.


	5. Placidula Euryanassa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dust, a hug, and an ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major TW for this one: Suicidal thoughts, repetitive thoughts, hypochondria, and emotional distress.
> 
> Final stretch!

“Hey- hey Five, you need to give it up buddy.” Klaus approaches Five slowly with his hands raised, like he’s trying not to spook a scared animal. 

* * *

“You can’t give up.” commands Delores, sharp and cold; seemingly towering above him from his place on the ground.

* * *

Klaus tentatively reaches for him but Five jerks his arm away, his grip tightening on the chalk. This is too important for arbitrary games. Klaus would never understand the magnitude of his work, the stakes, the weight of each number in a solution.

“Five-”

“You’re wasting my time!” He snarls, ignoring Klaus’s wide-eyed look of hurt. Five focuses back to his equations, _ if k > 0 something is “moving” to right (+x direction) and if k < 0 moving to left, he’ll need to resort to time dependent Schr. Eqn. to- _

Klaus glances helplessly to his side, presumably towards Ben.

“It’s okay, I’m here.” 

Five grits his teeth and writes faster. 

* * *

“Why?! Why can’t I?” Five demands, Five s_creams _ , because he’s trapped, because he’s always been trapped but this time the whole world’s his prison. How _ dare _ she ask this of him. He pounds his fists on the ground, not caring if he looks like a child. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, _ how dare she _. 

* * *

_ “Five? Five, can you hear me?” _

* * *

She shakes with rage (she’s rocking in the wind).

“Don’t think so highly of yourself, Five. You are not a martyred Sisyphus, who never imagined himself happy and threw away his boulder. You are Atlas, and you must hold up the world, even when your legs break beneath you. You can never drop your burden. Never, you understand me?” Delores condemns him. 

“You are weak! You are useless!” yells the imprint that Reginald had left on his mind.

“I want to die.” says Five to nothing. His brain loops and repeats it back to him. I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die-

“You are never giving up, Five.” says Delores, and it is not a comfort. 

There is dust, there is nothing but dust. 

The wind carries a whistle, it speaks to him in words, “One day at a time.” it says and it sounds remarkably like Ben. It’s soft, and it’s the only thing he’s heard all day that doesn’t feel like it’s crushing him.

With that, he picks himself up with wobbly legs and continues on his thankless march.

* * *

All the fight leaves Five in one fell swoop and in an exhale of exhaustion, his arms drop to his sides. He stares ahead, and numbly let's Klaus take the chalk.

“Haha_ha_, there you go!”.

Five feels tears gathering in his eyes, despite himself. He should probably teleport away, so he can take care of this embarrassing display in privacy.

“Oh.” Klaus breathes out.

Klaus places his hand on Five’s shoulder, cautious and slow, as if asking for permission. Five lets him. Klaus places his hand on his other shoulder, and Five lets him. Klaus crouches down and wraps his hands around him gently, and Five finally allows himself to be held.

“Hey, it’s okay Five. Let it go, just let go.” Klaus rubs his back. 

Five goes stiff, but returns the embrace. His hands clutch tightly to Klaus’s feather patchwork coat, and Klaus grasps back just as intensely. Five buries his face into his sibling’s chest, shuddering and choppy breaths fighting their way out of his lungs. With that, the tightly wound ball of hurt unravels completely, and Five sobs and sobs and sobs. 

* * *

Everything is built to break these days. The world is ending in a thousand ways, except this time there is nothing he can do about it.

When he takes a sip of water or a bite of food, he thinks of pollution, chemicals, and disease. 

(The FDA is useless to such a degree, that they might as well put on little unicorn stickers on the bottles of medicine and boxes of food, in place of the goddamn FDA certification. It’s reasonable to be worried.)

(Everyone is trying to maximize their profit. The cost of false efficiency is paid directly to the grim reaper. Five has been behind the scenes in a decaying history. Five knows.)

When the adrenaline subsidies, and everything falls into a quiet, a new breed of panic starts to creep into the corners.

When he turns his head, he sees a thousand deaths.

Luther’s internal organs, presumably fucked to hell. Diego’s head injuries, he seems desperate to keep accumulating. Allison’s lack of self-preservation from a lifetime of easy offerings. Ben’s inevitable disappearance, destined to fade into the black, to move on and die a second death (and who would Five be to deprive him of that mercy, anyway?)

Every time he can simply check in on one of his siblings, and see them warm and moving (_ living _), he is awash with relief. Relief, then anxiety, then he checks again.

Every time he sees Klaus dancing around in his headset, he thinks about how later in life Klaus will probably develop Tinnitus. He also thinks of how Klaus will not probably not develop Tinnitus, because Klaus will probably die young, since he started doing cocaine at fifteen and has spent every waking moment attempting to liquidize his brain since then.

Every time he sees Vanya’s brows furrow, he sees a concussive wave, a terrible burning white light, unseeing eyes, everyone _ dead dead dead _-

Every time the world turns into numbers it breaks into squares.

So he counts the water marks on the wall, so he runs over his equations, so he swallows his spit exactly one time.

Time pulls like the tide;

And he exhales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally gave Five a hug, but at what cost?
> 
> And that's it! Sorry for the wait on this one, college started up and it's been hectic! 
> 
> A quick disclaimer, Five calls himself crazy in this fic, but he was not raised in an environment that was particularly mental health conscious. In reality, it is not really acceptable to call people with OCD or other disorders "crazy".
> 
> Also, like Five, I never received any treatment for my OCD, so if I got anything wrong, please let me know.
> 
> There was a lot of things I disliked about this fic, but the lovely comments y'all sent in kept me going. Thank you very much for that.

**Author's Note:**

> It don't have anything against bo staffs btw, I actually think their pretty cool.
> 
> What did y'all think?


End file.
